Such Wicked Intent (2 page)

A lump formed in my throat. How many times had I wished it were possible, if only for a few moments? And suddenly, hungrily, I was reading. But I made it through only a few lines before looking away, self-disgust welling within me.

Why had I even taken this book from the bonfire? It was just
more medieval nonsense, and unlike the alchemical lore I’d put such faith in, this didn’t even pretend to have a veneer of fact or science.

With great determination I folded the crinkled sheaf of pages and stuck them back into their compartment. Then I hurriedly began wrapping up the metal pieces. The star-shaped pendulum was last, and in my angry haste I stabbed myself on one of its sharp points. A drop of blood welled from my finger onto the ornament, and in that instant the thing was as something alive in my hand. It gave only the slightest tremor, but I dropped it in alarm.

It lay in its metal box, an inert object once more.

But an object that contained some strange, compressed power within it.

*   *   *

“Now do that bit up here,” I said to my nine-year-old brother, Ernest, and watched him carefully as he tapped the hammer against the nail. “That’s it. Good!”

I’d had all the materials brought up to the west sitting room and, after Sunday lunch, had set about building a wooden pendulum, in accordance with the instructions in my metal book. Of course, no one needed to know where these instructions had come from, or their true purpose. It was just a fun and educational activity, and one my mother watched over approvingly as she wrote her letters.

“It’s good to see you so engaged in something, Victor,” she said, coming over now to place an affectionate hand on my head. Her eyes, I noticed, were moist.

Since Konrad’s death, I hated everything. I could not concentrate to read. I could not sit still long enough to listen to music. Neither horseback riding nor sailing offered me any pleasure. The world was going on elsewhere, and I had no part in it. I was locked deep inside myself.

But now… after opening that metal book, there was something I wanted.

Down the corridor I could hear the tramp of the servants whom Father had instructed to seal up the Dark Library forever. They would fill in the well at the bottom of the shaft to make sure no rats would get inside and bring plague. And then the masons would brick up the entrance to the Dark Library and, after the spiral stairs were destroyed, plaster over the secret entrance from our own library. Even after everything that had happened, I did not like to think of it—something being lost forever, like the lid closing over Konrad’s sarcophagus.

The pendulum tripod was all but finished. It stood some three feet off the ground on its wooden legs. I was quite pleased with myself, for the measurements had had to be precise, and as I looked at it now from every angle, it seemed perfectly level. From the tripod’s apex was fixed the strange metal pivot that allowed the pendulum to move in any direction. I still had to attach the final piece of the pivot, a kind of second joint, but I could tell Ernest was getting impatient.

“Let’s make it go,” he said eagerly, and with a pang I noticed that this was one of the first times since the funeral when I’d seen him look happy. Konrad had always been his favorite. Ashamed, I realized how in my own grief I’d neglected
everyone else’s. I would have to be a better brother to Ernest.

“All right,” I said. “But remember it’s not quite done yet. Right now it’s just a normal pendulum.”

Quickly I tied a measure of string to the main pivot and at the end attached the star-shaped pendant from the metal book. The star had one point that was longer than all the others, pointing straight down at the floor.

“That’s an unusual weight,” Elizabeth said. She’d been reading in an armchair, and now walked over for a closer look at our work. “Where did you find it?”

“Just something I found lying around,” I replied carelessly.

She frowned. “I think I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

“Care to lend a hand?” I asked, hoping to distract her.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m enjoying my book.”

“Ah, quiet contemplation,” I said. “Can never have enough of that. Nice and solitary.”

Her eyebrows lifted satirically, and she then returned to her chair.

“Can we make it go now?” Ernest asked impatiently.

I pulled back the weight and let it swing in a long arc, back and forth.

“It’s not too interesting,” said Ernest after a few moments. “It just keeps going in the same direction.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But that will change in time,” said Father, and I turned to see him watching over us. I hadn’t heard him come in. He smiled down at Ernest. “If we leave it long enough, you’ll see it change course because of the earth’s revolution.”

Ernest frowned. “How?”

“The earth is a big ball, remember, making a complete rotation every twenty-four hours.”

“So it would turn the pendulum?” Ernest asked, his small brow furrowed.

“No, the pendulum stays exactly the same. The earth does the moving below it, so it only seems like the pendulum’s direction changes.”

I watched Ernest’s face, and I wondered how much of this he understood. I wasn’t entirely sure I understood it myself.

“How long does that take?” he asked.

“Hours before you’d notice.”

“Oh.” Ernest’s eyes strayed to the window, musing about better entertainments.

My father’s gaze settled on me briefly. “An excellent activity. Well done, Victor.”

And with that he left the room, saying he had some business to attend to in his study. I wondered if he was avoiding me—in the same way that, until today, I had tried to avoid everyone else in the house.

I looked back at Ernest, eager to recapture his attention. “But watch what happens when we attach the double joint,” I told him. “Now, I’ll need your help here. It’s a bit tricky…”

It took us some time to fix the double joint to the main pivot, but Ernest proved to be a very focused apprentice, as long as I let him hold a tool or occasionally twist a screw. When we were finished, we tied on the star-shaped pendulum weight once more.

“Now watch this,” I said. “There are two pivots, each at ninety degrees to each other.”

I pulled back the weight and let go. With each swing the weight careened in a new direction, completely unpredictably, as though it were doing some strange dance.

Ernest laughed, delighted. “It’s like it knows!”

I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like it knows what it wants to do,” he said.

I smiled. There was indeed something eerily alive about the motion of the thing.

Elizabeth came back over and watched with interest as the pendulum flailed about.

“It goes and goes,” Ernest said.

“It will slow down eventually,” I replied.

I looked at my younger brother, pleased by his delight. “So, what do you say, Ernest? Is that a good toy?”

“Yes,” he said, stopping the pendulum and then setting it going in a different direction.

“It’s oddly hypnotic,” said Mother, “like looking at the flames of the fire—never the same from moment to moment.”

I wished Father had not gone off so quickly. I would have liked to feel his hand clap me on the shoulder.

I worried that he blamed me. It was never spoken; it didn’t need to be, but I felt it as an invisible barrier between us. During the quest to make the elixir I had deceived him, and kept secrets from him, and he’d ordered us to abandon the search. But I’d ignored him.

I wanted things mended between us. Konrad’s death felt like
a great fissure through my being, and another blow would crack me apart entirely.

And yet here I was, about to deceive Father again.

*   *   *

As we were finishing dinner, Justine, our nursemaid, came to tell me that William, my littlest brother, had been calling for me from his crib.

I quickly finished my torte and left the table. In the dim nursery I saw William in his crib, still awake, lying on his stomach, with his arms circled around his favorite two toys, a knit elephant and a soft flannel horse. He was not quite one yet, and at the sight of me his legs wriggled against the sheets in excitement, and he beamed. A more blissful face I don’t think I’d ever seen.

“Tor,” he called me.

“What are you doing, wide-awake?” I placed a hand on his back, his warm head. He pushed up, and I leaned down to kiss him. “I love you, Willy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, and dropped back down, hugging his animals closer to his face.

For a moment my resolve melted. My apparatus was finished and waiting in my bedchamber for my midnight business. I could take it apart. I could put it away. I could sink the metal book in the lake. But I knew I wouldn’t. Once an idea had set its course in my head and I’d fixed my destination on the horizon, I’d never been able to tear my gaze away.

I embraced William once more. How I envied him—the world was such a simple, good place. All he needed was a soft bed, two toys, and a kiss on the head.

*   *   *

After midnight, by candlelight, I spread upon the floor the spirit board I’d fashioned. It was a large piece of leather on which I had written the letters of the alphabet, well spaced, around the edges, in the particular manner described in the instructions. Rising from the center of the board was the wooden tripod that held the pendulum.

I placed more candles around the periphery of the board so I could see properly. I had a sheaf of paper, two inkwells, and an extra quill nearby for good measure.

I skimmed over the instructions once more. Rain pattered against my window, and when I glanced up, I had the fleeting sensation that someone was looking in at me. I went to close the curtains, then returned to the spirit board. I crouched beside the pendulum and deliberately, in accordance with the instructions, pricked my finger upon one of the weight’s points. I felt its purposeful vibration and quickly stood. I picked up a piece of paper, dipped my quill into the well, and cleared my throat.

“I invite you to speak,” I said to the empty room.

No sudden draft chilled my flesh; no candles guttered.

“I invite you to come,” I whispered.

My door opened, and every hair on my neck bristled as a shadow darted into the room. Almost at once the flickering candlelight showed me the face of Elizabeth, and my terror was replaced with indignation.

“What’re you doing here?” I demanded.

“What is it
you’re
doing?” she countered, staring at the board,
and then my pendulum. “I knew that machine of yours was no mere toy.”

I made no reply.

“What does it do?” she persisted.

“I don’t know yet.”

“What is it
meant
to do?”

“Allow me to talk with Konrad.”

Her face was waxen. “Is this some invention of yours?”

I shook my head. “In the bonfire there was a book that wouldn’t burn. Well, it wasn’t really a book but a metal box, and in it were instructions for conversing with the dead. It claims that their spirits remain a time on the earth, unseen by us, weak and powerless to communicate unless we help them.”

“And who was the author of this book?”

I shrugged. “Some magician or necromancer. What does it matter?”

“But you don’t even believe in such things!”

I chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. My faith in all things is shaken. Modern science failed me. Alchemy failed. I trust nothing but am ready to try anything.”

She looked horrified. “The occult? I actually believe in a world beyond ours, Victor. I haven’t seen them, but there may truly be ghosts—and devils, too—and I think it very unwise to try to summon them.”

“All I know is that I want to talk to Konrad.”

From the corner of my eye I saw the pendulum twitch.

“Look!” I whispered, pointing.

“It’s a draft,” she breathed.

“I feel no draft.” The pendulum weight flinched once more and quivered slightly, as though waiting.

“How do you make it move?” she demanded, her voice tinged with both anger and fear.

“I’m doing nothing!” I held out some paper and my extra quill and inkwell. “Curious? Sit across from me and write down any letters the pendulum points to!”

“I don’t like this, Victor!”

“Leave, then! Get thee to a nunnery!”

She looked at me, hesitated for only a split second, and took the paper and quill. I couldn’t help smiling. Elizabeth was never one to back down from a challenge.

“I part the veil between our worlds,” I whispered. “I invite the spirit of my brother Konrad to join us. I invite you to speak, Konrad.”

The pendulum quivered again.

“I beg you, speak.”

Elizabeth gasped as the weight jerked, and my eyes locked on to its long tip, watching the letters it pointed to as it swung. Hurriedly I began writing.

“Copy them down,” I panted. My entire body felt suddenly sheathed in ice. Back and forth, side to side, the star-shaped weight jerked swiftly.

“They’re not forming words!” Elizabeth said.

“Don’t worry about that now!” I said, for the pendulum’s movements were becoming faster still. It flailed about the spirit board, and I could scarcely keep up with its spastic motions. I was scribbling madly, the ink smearing in my haste.

The pendulum’s frenzy thrilled me—and terrified me too, for it was like a bird trapped in a room. I lost track of time and was only aware of filling page after page until, with a final violent spasm, the star-shaped pendulum broke its tether, flew across the room, and hit the wall. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out, feeling as though it had been
my body
, and not the pendulum, lashing about.

I looked at Elizabeth, then down at my pages of desperate letters.

“This isn’t some trick, Victor?”

“You saw it moving!”

She moved around the board toward me, and for a moment I thought that she was going to embrace me, but her arms caressed only the air in front of me, hands brushing back and forth.

“What’re you doing?” I demanded.

“Checking for strings. You might’ve made it move yourself.”